~After taking a class on growing mushrooms on a toilet paper roll   

You— body of mycelium— spawn above
my kitchen sink, chaste in a cabinet
spinning toilet paper’s cellulose
to oyster mushrooms. Our bodies—
yours and mine—pass each other
in opposite directions: yours grows,
spores spreading in the moistened ply,
as mine retreats into wrinkles
and tired joints grateful for balm.  

O, to see your coming bloom
now I’ve left mine far behind,
how those prolific pins become caps
and gills, triumph after your
ropeless climb up the nourishing
roll. High above my kitchen sink
you hide—still pre-bloom—behind
cabinet’s door, just as I do—
post bloom—from mirrors.